Battles
by skipmcgee
Summary: What you can't change you've got to live with. (Warnings: HarryRon slash)Part 3 recently added.
1. Preemptive Strike

Title: Preemptive Strike

Author: Skt

Genre: Harry/Ron

Warnings/Spoilers: Nada on both

Summary: What you can't change you've got to live with.

Rejection comes in a lot of forms, and Harry was pretty sure he'd experienced them all. He was almost used to it, which in and of itself, was rather depressing. But whether of not it was pathetic (and Harry was pretty sure it was), rejection had become something he expected to happen to him every so often. A way of ensuring he kept his feet on the ground, he supposed. A reality check. Just the universe's way of making sure his head didn't get too big.

He understood why, rationalized it in his head until it made perfect sense. He had reached a point in his life where he was almost living as two people: he was Harry Potter, and he was Harry. He couldn't say he really enjoyed being either.

Harry Potter was the savior of the wearing world, and carried the burden of responsibility that went with the title. He fought battles and leapt into danger, only to escape unscathed. He was relentless in his determination to defeat the most evil wizard of all time. He was a hero.

Or at least he was supposed to be. But Harry couldn't help noticing that for being such a hero, he seemed to fail an awful lot of people around him. So many people he'd lost or gotten injured, because as big a hero as he was supposed to be, he never seemed to be able to save them.

And then there was Harry, the boy who had also failed so many people, if under different circumstances. Harry had grown up lonely and confused, unsure of why he was so disliked but not bold enough to question it, in case the answer was something he didn't want to hear. He'd lost one family and been rejected by another, and called a boarding school home. He was moody, and not particularly brilliant, and occasionally he had nightmares and cried in his sleep. And while he didn't like being The Harry Potter, at least he was considered a hero, which was better than being considered nothing at all.

Harry Potter could have big dreams, because that's what heroes did. They dreamed the impossible, and then they made it happen. He could hope for impossible things and then actually go out and get them, because heroes did impossible things all the time. But Harry... well, Harry wasn't much of anything, and those impossible things were always out of reach. The things Harry wanted he could never have, and he tried to stop wanting them in the first place, just to save himself the time.

Harry Potter could dream of winning the Quidditch game and do it, or learn the spell no one else seemed to be able to do, or battle a monster and come out on top. He could save the hostage and solve the riddle and speak the secret language if he needed to. Harry dreamed of a family he had yet to find, and had watched each and every opportunity for one slip away. He'd wished for a fresh start, a place where bullies didn't know his name, and wound up at a school where everyone knew who he was even before he did. Mostly he'd wished he was just normal and could fit in, like all the other students he'd envied growing up. Instead he'd found that no matter where he went he would always be the child who stood out, ostracized by them even as he impressed them.

But even knowing the truth Harry couldn't stop wishing. He'd tell himself not to, and steel himself for the inevitable let-down, but all the same he still made that wish in the first place. They were fruitless dreams that always left him lonely and aching for things that could never be. He clutched them close to his chest, secrets he could take out and admire when no one was looking and he needed to remember why he was even bothering. But he never showed anyone, because as bad as failing felt, it always felt worse when someone else was watching.

It took him a while to realize it wasn't just his secrets he was starting to hide away, but pieces of himself as well. And unfortunately sometimes acknowledging something isn't enough to make it go away. He could see it in his friends' eyes, and in the way people seemed to lose sight of him, call him secretive and mysterious even when he felt like he was exposing everything he had. He felt simultaneously hidden away and over-exposed, like a shroud around him that was slowly wearing away to reveal more and more.

His first instinct was to run, and he had to consciously convince himself not to on occasion. He figured he'd faced enough battles in his life, and short of being forced into one, he really didn't want to have to be involved in another. But something kept him there. Someone.

Actually, he was pretty sure he knew exactly what kept him from running, trying to find another place where he could start over again. What made him stay and play the hero yet again, all the while knowing the veneer was cracking. Harry had received one thing he'd always wanted, a wish that had come true.

He'd wished and hoped and dreamed of having a friend; a best friend. When he was younger he'd just wanted someone to play with who wouldn't beat him up or use him to get things - a favorite game of Dudley's as children had been 'Have Harry get the snack food from the fridge'. He'd wanted a friend who wanted to do the same things he'd wanted to do, go places he'd wanted to go, and liked the things he liked. He'd just wanted someone who understood him, who could have fun with him, and be there for him like he wanted to be there for them.

And fate had seen fit to grant one of his wishes, at least. He'd gotten not one but two friends; people he'd give his life for because he knew they felt the same for him. He'd never been so grateful for anything in his life.

Which was why, when certain feelings came around and reared their unexpected heads, Harry wasn't certain what to do. He'd already had his best friend fulfill one dream he'd never thought would come true, and he couldn't really justify giving him the burden of another.

Which didn't really solve anything, but was enough to occupy his thoughts for quite some time.

Not that he didn't have enough to keep him busy, but all the same, his mind seem to find more than enough time to drag him back to those ever-present thoughts and feelings. The ache in his chest he only seemed to remember when lying in bed late at night.

Those were the times when his mind would get carried away, and he'd almost convince himself he was going to do something about it. He was going to get up and shake Ron awake and tell him how he felt, to hell with every consequence and doubt. But then reality would set back in, and he'd flop back onto his pillow with a sigh.

Ron had done so much for him, and he hadn't even realized it. Hadn't known how every single day he'd stood by Harry's side, or waited for him, or invited him along somewhere had been seared into Harry's mind, a warm memory to make him smile when he needed to most. Ron had offered himself up so Harry could go on the very first year they'd met, as a little boy had given up his own life for Harry, and Harry had never forgotten that, or any time thereafter where he proved his loyalty over and over again.

Harry appreciated it so much, was so pathetically grateful, that he couldn't be greedy enough to ask for more. He'd already practically asked for Ron's life only to have Ron offer it to him, how could he ask for his heart and soul too?

Although to be fair, Harry wasn't sure that he wanted all that either. He wasn't sure of anything, anymore than he was sure of himself. He didn't even know who he was pretending to be some days, never mind what that person wanted. He just knew that, whoever he was, he liked being around Ron, being close to him. He wanted to be closer.

But he settled for being Ron's best friend, all the while feeling guilty for calling it 'settling'. He'd never had so much in his life, and he couldn't find it in himself to risk it in the pursuit of more. Ron liked him, whether he was Harry, Harry Potter, or 'boy' (the closest thing to an affectionate endearment his Uncle had ever uttered at him), and that was good enough for him. It would have to be.

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	2. Unprotected

Title: Unprotected

Author: Skt

Genre: Harry/Ron, angst

Rating: PG-ish

Warnings/Spoilers: No warnings, really general spoilers

Word Count: Appr. 1600

Summary: Cause and Effect. A sequel to Preemptive Strike.

A/N: This is a sequel to Preemptive Strike, so you should probably read that first. Most of the inspiration for this is from the song "Cold" from Crossfade. I wasn't getting anything until I heard that song. No beta, so any and all mistakes are mine, and sorry.

Ron had been staring at his hands for a long time. He was pretty sure they hadn't changed in all that time, and they certainly hadn't done anything interesting, but all the same, he sat and stared. He tried to focus on them, and had been managing quite well for some time. He wasn't really thinking of anything, nothing besides his hands.

Certainly not where they had been, or more importantly, where they wanted to go.

It wasn't as difficult as he would have thought it to be - blocking out something so obvious. Apparently he'd been missing the point for quite some time. He knew he could be a little slow on occasion, but even he was stumped as to how he'd let the clue bus pass him by this time.

He should have seen it coming, and now that his mind was back on the subject it was impossible for him to ignore it. He felt as though he'd been thrown back several years, to when he was much younger. He could remember laying in his bed, scared because a noise or nightmare had somehow become a monster in his room. He'd lay in bed with his eyes squeezed shut, somehow convinced that only by seeing the monster would it become real.

He knew it illogical, but it didn't stop him from trying. For someone who was supposed to be brave he certainly had a lot of fears. And his metaphor really didn't work, because even though he was terrified, it wasn't of a monster.

He was more afraid of himself.

And dammit to hell, that wasn't what he meant either. He wasn't good at expressing himself at the best of times, and right now he was so far out of his depth as to be drowning in his own emotions and feelings.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to focus. _'Think logically'_, the voice in the back of his mind said, sounding suspiciously (and a little worryingly) like Hermione. _'What's the cause, and what are the effects?'_

Well the cause, that he could answer. The cause was Harry - or what Harry had done. The effects? Well, he was pretty sure sitting on his dorm bed staring at his hands in shock would be one. Everything else he jumbled together and counted as two.

He could practically hear Hermione sighing in irritation while rolling her eyes. _'Take it apart, Ron'_. He blinked and tried to figure out where to start, randomly selecting something like he would randomly select a thread twisted with other threads into a messy knot. Just take one and start picking at it, hope that it's the right way to go.

Ron had never been a patient person. Years of being the last boy meant he had had to wait for everything - clothes, books, toys. He wasn't any good at waiting, despite all the practice. It wasn't something he'd ever been able to learn. It was more or less forced upon him, the way pain sometimes is. You can get through it better with practice, but it never hurts less. Sometimes it means it actually hurts more.

Most of Ron's childhood friends had met him through his brothers; more second-hand articles. Harry was the first friend _he _had made. And not just any friend, but the most famous and important boy in the entire wizarding world. The Boy Who Lived, and he picked _Ron _to be his friend. Ron had never forgotten that.

And Ron should have noticed something, right from that point. He'd never actually stopped to think what that meant. What every time Harry had done something like it had meant. He'd always been too wrapped up in bigger things, loftier dreams that he had no chance of achieving. Harry had always been so protective of himself, and sometimes it was like playing guessing games in the dark to figure out what he meant when he did or said something. Ron knew the other boy so well, better than anyone, but there were still things he couldn't see.

He did know, though, that he should have been paying more attention to the details, to the meanings and significance. Should have put it all together, obvious pieces to a puzzle whose picture he wasn't sure of yet. But he hadn't, because that would have involved thinking ahead, something Ron was monumentally horrible at. He was a terrible planner, and it was one of the reasons why he was constantly trying to play catch-up in most parts of his life. Behind in school work, missed a Quidditch practice, forgot to clean his room and do his chores. All the stupid small things that made him overlook the most important thing of all.

Ron had been Harry's best friend for years and in all that time he'd never had an inkling of what his friend had really felt. He wondered what kind of friend that really made him. Harry always saved the day, went out of his way to make sure that as few people got hurt as possible. He'd saved Ron's life, more than once. He'd never discounted what Ron had said or thought just because Ron was the youngest Weasley boy; more often than not he took his advice, just because it was Ron who had said it. In the most basic sense, he was a good person.

Ron had been relatively cold by comparison. How many times had he discounted what Harry had said or done just because it sounded impossible or unbelievable? And he still called himself Harry's best friend. He felt like he didn't deserve the title. All this time he had probably been discounting Harry's feelings as well, without ever realizing it.

Well, not discounting them, but ignoring them. Just like he ignored his own feelings. Things he had stopped at the source, not even bothered to think about, because he knew it would just end with him feeling hurt and lonely. He hadn't thought Harry would have felt the same way, and he needed Harry's friendship more than anything else.

He didn't want Harry to see the parts of him he didn't like to look at himself; it was one place where Harry had definitely surpassed him. Harry was never afraid to show the bad to Ron, and he didn't realize just how special it made Ron feel. To be the one who could make Harry Potter open up, expose who he really was. One of the reasons his hands were shaking. The dam of feelings cracked and broken, a flood of feelings threatening to overwhelm him. The way he felt about Harry he'd never felt about anyone else, and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

His mind was running in eight different directions, and despite his resolve to think it through logically, all he could manage was an unorganized stream of consciousness that was threatening to make him panic. He could think of a hundred reasons why this was a horrible idea, why he should stop thinking about it altogether. They'd barely become adults; for all practical purposes they were still kids. And as ashamed as he was to admit it, he knew if he let Harry know he didn't want to be more than friends, Harry would accept that. But he didn't know if that's what he really wanted. Wanted he needed was someone to explain it to, to help him organize his thoughts outloud.

Which was a little ironic, he had to admit. Normally he'd just do what he always did when he was confused or worried about something - go talk to Harry. He'd always been able to confide in Harry, he didn't think he could deal with the possibility he wouldn't be able to do that in the future. For whichever reason came first. His hands shook harder.

And as terrified as he was by both his feelings and Harry's, he was even more frightened by the idea that they might never have the chance to explore them.

Harry had slipped up, touched his wrist in an abortive gesture that spoke more of what he hadn't done than what he had. He'd looked at Ron, eyes wide but oddly resigned, like a parent whose child had done something wrong and left him to explain it. He'd opened his mouth to say something Ron hadn't been sure he would want to hear. He hadn't had the chance to actually say anything.

Harry was gone, and Ron wasn't sure if he'd make it back. Two minutes of hushed conversation with Dumbledore and he had disappeared, sweeping away with him everything Ron had come to associate with safety and comfort and love.

And if all that just... _disappeared _with Harry, where did that leave Ron?

He realized it wasn't just his hands that were shaking. It was his entire body, shivering with tremors that spoke of the fears he couldn't.

'_Make it back to me, Harry. Please'. _

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	3. Knowledge

Title: Knowledge

Author: Skt

Rating: PG-13

Warnings/Spoilers: Few swear words, no big spoilers

Word Count: Approx. 1000

Summary: The real victory is getting up again.

A/N: Part 3 in a series that starts with Preemptive Strike. You should really read the other 2 or you'll be confused. This came from 2 songs, literally written in about 12 minutes as I played them both a couple of times. Killradio's "Do You Know?" and The Used "The Taste of Ink" are great songs. Not betaed, so I'm sorry about any and all mistakes.

The only thing Harry could think about was the fact that he had such few thoughts. From all he had heard, he had assumed that his life would flash past his eyes. Instead he found he was too tired to do anything besides think about not thinking.

The corner of his mouth lifted in the parody of a smile at the thought, and he thought he might laugh; actually took in the breath to do it, but then he felt the sharp stab of pain below his ribs and it stopped the movement cold.

He'd done his duty, never mind that it shouldn't have been his to begin with, and fought the good fight. Stood there in the spotlight he always seemed to find himself in, and given it his all for reasons he only half-believed in. A personal vendetta that had been exploited so that other people could have him do the things they couldn't.

He'd had his feelings manipulated, told that he had the opportunity to avenge his parents and _why didn't he go do it? _What kind of son would he be otherwise? With his beautiful mother, who'd given him his eyes, and his father who'd given his Seeker skills. He'd only been a child, but he'd wanted to do right by his parents, and he'd thought that this was the way to do it. Now he wondered if his parents would have preferred he leave the fight to someone else. After all, they'd died to save his life, and here he was, giving his to avenge theirs'.

He had to survive, make it out alive. He'd have the chance to be free. The chance to break out and live for himself, instead of for useless and pointless prophecies that didn't bring him anything but inevitable pain.

He wasn't sure if he'd have that opportunity now, and that made him as angry as it did regretful. He was filled with an instant longing for so many things he didn't even know where to begin.

He'd been port-keyed to a place he'd never seen before, and he had no idea how to get back. He'd won, but victory only went so far when you were critically injured with no idea where you were or how to get back. He was alone, and even if he had been able to stand up and walk, he wouldn't have known which direction to head in. He didn't even know what time it was. Last he'd checked it was after two in the morning.

'_It's too late for this'_ he thought almost hysterically. He was so tired, but he wasn't sure that if he did go to sleep he would wake up. He wanted to sleep, to dream of things that couldn't be. He wanted to pretend that he could have all he wanted, who he wanted, the way he wanted.

Utterly ridiculous things, dreams of traveling, of living in a flat somewhere, of going dancing, despite the fact that neither he nor Ron could or would ever go dance somewhere. The impossibility of it only made him want it more.

He would have said something, had he been given the chance. He would have had to, having slipped up in a way that was all too inevitable. He would have made himself force the words out - the words he really meant. He'd never been able to express himself, not like he'd really wanted to, but he would have given it his best shot.

Said how sorry he was that he'd held himself back, lied through omission everyday for so long he wasn't sure when he'd been telling the truth. He would have looked into Ron's eyes and let him see everything, all the parts of himself he tried to hide from everyone, even himself.

It wasn't fair that he couldn't and he felt a surge of anger at the position he'd been placed in. Always and forever a servant of the public, someone at their disposal. He was sick of it and he wanted nothing more than to get up and go back, yell at them all about what they did to him.

What they did to Ron.

He forced his body up with a determination that he himself would have found impressive, had he not been so focused. He didn't think about anything but breathing and moving, not losing consciousness. He had to get home.

It didn't matter that he was injured, alone, lost, and for all intents and purposes still a kid. Experience had taken away every chance he'd ever had at innocence or youth, and despite the fact that he tried to cling to childhood with his fingertips, he'd always believed that he'd missed the chance to really understand it. He saw the world through the eyes and mentality of a world-weary soldier, and this was one battle he wasn't going to lose.

Fuck, this wasn't the battle, this was the whole damn war.

Despite what his Potions grades were, he wasn't an idiot, and he had seen the look in Ron's eyes when Harry had touched him. There was surprise and embarrassment and caution, but all the same Harry could tell what it really meant. It didn't make any sense, but Harry figured it didn't have to. He just knew, and the knowledge made his current situation that much more upsetting.

He had to get back. Ron was waiting for him.

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